“Veronica! I told you to go put some clothes on!” She shoved against Bob and stood in front of him.
“No problem,” I threw over my shoulder as I clutched the blanket and stomped down the hall. Shouldn’t I be able to walk around my own home without some perv eyeballing me? Last time I checked, this was my house too.
But apparently this was my day for incorrect assumptions, because just as I reached my bedroom door I overheard Mom say, “That girl’s a selfish little leech, just like her father. I can’t wait until we have this place all to ourselves.”
Blindly, I pushed into my room, slammed the door, and threw myself down on my narrow bed. The sobs I’d been holding back since that afternoon crashed over me in waves, leaving me breathless. I cried until my head felt stuffed full of cotton, and my tightly held control lay shattered in jagged pieces around me. How had everything gone so wrong?
Maybe Eric was right about me. Since Dad left, Mom and I had lived in the same house, existing day by day, barely speaking. And with Kenna gone, there wasn’t a single person in Bainbridge I considered a friend. Freezing people out seemed to be my special power.
A sudden chill racked my body. Rolling onto my side, I pulled the covers up to my chin, shaking with a cold that radiated from deep inside me. I squeezed my eyes closed, and a vivid image of golden-boy flooded me with warmth. “Don’t cry, lass.”
Clinging to the gorgeous figment of my imagination like a security blanket, I fell asleep to the lullaby of imaginary bagpipes.
CHAPTER 2
Veronica
Kenna and I strolled down the cobbled streets and crested a hill, me gawking like a tourist, which, technically, I was. Despite my weeks of research, nothing could’ve prepared me for the experience of actually being in this foreign land. From our elevated vantage point, Alloway appeared to be a cluster of whitewashed cottages and medieval stone structures nestled into an emerald landscape so vibrant it dazzled the eyes. Rooftops of every earth-tone variation and angle rose against an impossibly bright blue sky. It was like falling into an oil painting.
The softly rumbling Doon River flowed along the left side of the village. And just off the riverbank, the marble pillars and curved dome of a Grecian monument—dedicated to the poet Robert Burns—created a proud pinnacle that reached toward the heavens.
As we entered the village proper, the sidewalks teemed with people. Store owners propped open doors to let in the fresh breeze. Residents hurried down the crooked lanes, focused on their destinations but smiling. The torrential rains that had been present since we’d first arrived in Glasgow had finally stopped, leaving behind an iridescent coating that reflected the sun like beveled glass. Every light pole, glossy leaf, and brick storefront sparkled, reminding me of something from Narnia.
We followed a curve in the road, and a hint of fresh-brewed coffee wafted through the air to settle on my taste buds.
“Poet’s Corner should be just ahead.” Kenna tucked a strand of crimson hair behind her ear and pointed down the street. She’d wanted to stop in town before heading to the cottage so we could visit her favorite coffee shop. She claimed they had the best cinnamon hot chocolate on the planet.
Walking down this beautiful street with my BFF by my side, an entire summer in Scotland stretching before us, I had to suppress the urge to dance. And, as if to make the moment even more perfect, a tall, well-built boy wearing a kilt strode toward me. I noted the dark-blond waves of his hair, broad cheekbones, and strong nose. He radiated restless power. Wow. He was beyond gorgeous.
He drew closer, his gaze never leaving my face, and his mouth slid into a slow smile.